


Remembrance, The Winter, Truth

by VeronicaFerCard



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes-centric, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Inspired by Music, M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovery, Top Bucky Barnes, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 17:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7582909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeronicaFerCard/pseuds/VeronicaFerCard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Bucky's journey. This is how he finally comes back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> I discovered Balmorhea's Rememberance, The Winter, and Truth and thought they would make fantastic soundtracks so I listened to each of them as I wrote each chapter respectively.

He remembers touch. Wandering lips searching for his own under the covers; hands stilling his hips to stop the noises from the squeaky bed. He remembers small, fragile bones under himself. Two bodies moving as if they were one.

He remembers dancing. His body moving fast, as his heartbeat followed the rhythm of the song. Sweat clinging the cheap fabric of his shirt to his back; and the twirling of skirts and dresses brushing against his legs.

He remembers praying. He was not a religious man, but he remembers praying; so much praying. He remembers offering his tainted soul in exchange for someone else’s. Someone pure. He’d rage at God, just to ask for forgiveness on his next breath. He didn’t mean it. He was just scared and please, _please,_ spare _him_.  He must have done something right, somewhere along the way, must have finally said the right words. He remembers strong hands rescuing him from hell. So much muscle and so much _everything_. God had finally listened, taking him up on his offer. A soul for a soul; and that’s how he knew he was going to die.

He remembers the fall. He remembers falling from the sky like rain, like snow, like Icarus. It was only fitting; he had been, after all, too close to the sun.  

He remembers pain. Everything hurts. That’s it. There is nothing more. He can’t think beyond the pain, but at the back of his mind he wonders if he is already dead. If he is, the nuns and preachers had lied to him. They said hell was red and this was…

He remembers white. All around him, everything was white and cold for so long. Even if he closes his eyes, white is all his can see. He is a splash of color in a blank canvas. But he must be the wrong shade because he’s slowly being erased by more white. More time passes and his artist must be tired of waiting for the white to cover him and so he is suddenly being dragged away from the picture.

He remembers more pain. And this is more likely. This is what he has been told. He is finally in hell and he forgets. He remembers electricity running through his body and then he forgets.

He forgets the exact shade of blue and why it was so important. He forgets names and he forgets faces, even his own.

He forgets about the sun.

He forgets fireworks, candy and music.

There was a promise about joining paths and never letting go. He forgets that too.

When there is nothing else to forget he is made to remember.

He remembers languages. He feels as if he knows them all. He doesn’t know how or even _why_ he knows them, but they spill easily from his tongue when he needs them. He remembers every plea. And he understands every word when someone begs for their lives.

He remembers the smell of death because it always follows him.

 He remembers cold. Cold that stretches for years and years until he complete loses track of where, of _when_ he is. He has passed his time and he remembers… _something._ He doesn’t know what but is no longer there.

He remembers his mission. He always remembers his mission. He can’t forget the missions because he has to report them, he has to repeat word by word what he’s done and to whom, and for how long they screamed for him to stop until _they_ did. He remembers last breaths, and part of him mourns the fact that none of them are his own.

He remembers metal. Cold and unforgiven. It hurts him as much as it hurts his missions, tearing at him from within. He remembers asking for this particular pain to stop, and then he remembers the taste of blood on his mouth when it didn’t. It never will.

He remembers solitude.  A distant part of him knows – knew? – that there is more. That there are touches that are not followed by pain and screams.  This part of him cries silently when it thinks he can’t hear it. Nobody else care if he cries. No one can see when he does.

He remembers waking up after longer than he can recall. His body knows the procedure by heart. He dreads every second of it. He remembers seeing the light of day and it has been so long someone has to cover his eyes with goggles or he won’t see what he’s supposed to be shooting at.

He remembers failing. It is unusual. But he is given another change and, even though he knows he can’t deny it, this time he’s intrigued. There is something different in the air but he can’t place it.

 He remembers the man in front of him.

He is addressed by a name. It makes his head hurt. Everything is spinning and he runs away. He shares with his handlers because he has to. He remembers the man. He remembers the man. He remembers _him._ He _knows_ him. His head hurts so much he wants to knock himself unconscious.

He remembers the man.

He remembers the chair.

He forgets.

He remembers tearing through people as if they were made of paper. Everyone and everything that stands on his way is swept aside with precision and enough force for him to be certain they won’t get back up.

He remembers taking a man down from the sky.

He remembers shooting three times. He doesn’t know why, but he never aims the head. His target gets back up every time. His frustration is so familiar he doesn’t think is something he remembers, it’s more like something he never forgot.

His target stops fighting when it’s just the two of them and the rest of the world is safe. He doesn’t.

He remembers bones breaking under his fist. One eye swelled shut, while the other looks up at him, sad and full of sorrow.

He remembers –

_I’m with ‘til the end of the line._

And then he remembers.


	2. The Winter

_My name is James Buchanan Barnes. I was born on March 10 th, 1917. I was 28 when I died. _

_I was 97 when Steve brought me back to life._

Bucky starts every entry on his journals with the same headline.  

He’s been writing almost every day for the past two years. He has sixty seven journals complete from the first to the last page. Every entry begins with a reassurance of who he is, and then he works his way down to where and when he is in the present. And finally, he opens the gates of his mind and lets out every single memory he can conjure. He pours it down on paper until his hand goes numb.

Nothing is irrelevant or too small to be written down.

There are three pages on his current diary dedicated to his sister’s cat.

There are twenty three diaries for his victims.

And, aside from those, all of the other journals are at least forty percent covered with memories of Steve.

Bucky won’t see him again, but he soaks up on everything he can remember of him.

 _God_ , he misses Steve so much.

Bucky doesn’t own a television but he has seen shows talking about Steve. Heck! There was a whole goddamn museum expo about him. Bucky’s memory was still fuzzy the first and only time he visited the Smithsonian to appreciate it, but every time he thinks back to it now… God, he’s so _proud_ of Stevie.

A sigh escapes his lips and Bucky closes his eyes against the only memory of Steve that doesn’t bring him joy.

He almost killed Steve.

Before, Bucky had spent most of his life looking out for him. It’s not a big deal. It’s just what people do for those they love.

Flash forward seven decades and he is putting three bullets through the man who was his entire world.

Flash forward seven decades and he is smashing in the face he used to kiss every night before going to sleep.

Flash forward seven decades and he can’t look himself in the mirror without thinking that the face looking back at him is the same so many people saw right before they died. And then he almost did the same to Steve.

There are no mirrors in his place.

He doesn’t like mirrors. He doesn’t like several things, actually. The winter is one of them. The cold brings up all kinds of bad memories; be it from Steve’s annual near death from pneumonia or his own several years trapped in a fucking refrigerator. Even now, Bucky can’t get out of his place without at least four layers of clothing.

Bucky also has a list of things he likes. Much as his dislikes is not something he actually writes down, but he does remind himself of them every morning.

He likes buying fresh fruits.

He likes waking up early enough to catch the sunrise, though, more often than not, his body has other plans.

He likes music, any kind of it. He does prefer the stuff from his own lifetime, and he has a huge soft spot for jazz, but Bucky could listen to anything on the radio these days; the melodies soothing something inside of him. Sometimes they even help get his breathing in order, when his thinking gets to loud and he starts to hyperventilate.

He likes routines, though they are too dangerous to be kept.

He loves Steve. But He doesn’t like hearing about him.

Bucky misses Steve more than the limb he actually lost. He misses home. Bucky is aware enough of himself to acknowledge Steve and home are one and the same. Steve is his only link to the past, much as he is Steve’s. Nobody else remembers the life they had.

If it weren’t for the dangerous that would put Steve and him in, Bucky would be by Steve’s side in a heartbeat.

He tries not to dwell on it much.

Deep down Bucky is sure a part of him has always known Steve and him were eventually to go their separate ways.

Steve is better off without him.

Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier, but Bucky tries to live his life as best as he can. He won’t give up on it. He has been through so much, and he survived it. He made it through hell and he’s not about to let go of the third chance life gives him.

It might not be much, he still has to look over his shoulder and watch his every step. He still needs to know there are at least three exits he can use before setting foot anywhere. But that’s a small price to pay for the freedom of his mind.

He is his own handler now, and even if things not always make sense, he knows that if he’s real carful he’ll have the time to figure it out.

As long as he’s free he can make it.

He just has to be careful.

He _is_ careful.

He is a survivor.

That’s how he knows the man on the newsstand has been eyeing him for longer than necessary.  

Bucky recognizes the pit on his stomach for what it is, when he takes a step forward and the man rushes out of the cubicle as if the devil himself were in his tail.

He should leave know, but he needs his things.

He can’t take all of his journals; the weight will slow him down, but he’s got things he’ll need. Passport, money. Bucky has a backpack prepare for a quick exit.

He sighs, resigned, as he turns back to the apartment. He really liked this place.

Bucky forces himself to walk normally, and takes the time to right his breathing. He remembers the fruits on the plastic bag he is holding.

He eats his four plums as he makes his way back. They are sweeter than he remembers; a faint trace of chemicals in every bite.

When he gets back to his apartment Steve is waiting for him.


	3. Truth

Bucky is sixteen when he loses his virginity.

He had spent the whole night dancing with Mary Ellen. He had longer sweat out the liquor he’d drunk when they stumble out of the club.  Steve is not with him this time so he doesn’t have to worry about the cold or home curfew. His ma will worry but she’ll understand. She knows how much he likes dancing, plus she’s got other kids to take care.

A few right words whispered in Mary Ellen’s ear and they find themselves in the alley behind the club. Her dress is up, his slacks are down.  She knows better what she’s doing than he does. His body does what is supposed to. He doesn’t feel a thing.

He doesn’t tell Steve until much later.

Bucky is seventeen the first time he makes love with Steve.

He cries after because he finally understands himself.

Bucky is a hundred years old when he finally gets to touch Steve again.

The future is more accepting and life has decided, at long last, to give Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers a break.

It takes a lot of pain and tears, it takes forgiving himself and asking for forgiveness, it takes realizing that Steve won’t let him go again, and that, even knowing it’d be safer, Bucky doesn’t want to leave him either. It takes seven months, one week and three days back in cryo to find a cure for his mind.

It will take the rest of his life in therapy to heal his soul.

It took only a second of seeing Steve’s face after waking up for Bucky to know that he would never be alone again.

And then the world is giving Bucky more than he has ever asked for.

T’challa gives him a new arm and a red book to burn.

The United Nations give him a pardon and an apology in the form of so much money Bucky is actually embarrassed about it.

Natalia gives him more memories, and together with the others they give him a place in Steve’s team. He declines, there was enough fight in his life, but he appreciates the sentiment. He could definitely use more friends.

Tony Stark gives him closure. They are alone in a room and he hears, he hears about a boy who was left alone, he hears about a family that was torn apart. Then hears about how this family had been hanging by a thread long before he ever showed up in their lives.  

He whispers an apology because he can’t bear to look the man in front of him in the eyes.

They are quiet for several minutes until Stark finally breaks the silence.

“Thing is,” he waits until Bucky looks up, meeting his eyes at last, to continue. “I didn’t invite you to my pity party, Terminator. Shit had hit the fan long before you, and there’s no guarantee it would get better, with or without you.” Bucky frowns at him, confused. His heart beating so fast it almost hurts. “I won’t waste any more time hating you. It won’t change what happened and,” Tony takes a deep breath and Bucky braces himself. “And it’s not on you, it _was_ you, but it’s not your fault. I see that now.”

It takes a moment for him to register what’s happening, and then is like Bucky is breathing for the first time since he fell from the train.

And then there is Steve.

And Steve gives him everything.

Steve gives Bucky a place in his life again, a place in his house.

A place in his bed.

There are things Bucky’s body has never forgotten. How it feels to be pressed against Steve is one of them.

The thrilling of anticipation as they slowly strip each other down.

Steve’s heavy sigh as Bucky catches his ear lobe between his teeth, and the shudder the runs down Steve’s body when Bucky whispers to him:

“I love you.”

Those are things he’s never forgotten.

Bucky lays Steve carefully on the bed, covering Steve’s body with his own and proceeds to leave a trail of kisses from his neck down to his collarbones and his chest.

Steve moans and groans under him when Bucky sucks on one of his nipples.

“You are my entire world, do you know that?” He mumbles as he begins to worship the other side of Steve’s chest.

Steve runs a hand through his hair and then cups Bucky’s jaw, lifting it up. When Bucky looks at him his eyes are shinning.

“I thought I lost you.” Steve’s voice breaks and Bucky shakes his head.

“Ain’t nothing gonna take me from you, ever again,” he promises. There’s so much determination is his voice, he’s inclined to believe himself. Bucky reaches a hand down their body and starts a slow, but firm stroke on Steve. “Not even death,” he continues as Steve closes his eyes and arches his back, letting out a low grunt as he hardens on Bucky’s grip. Bucky peaks his pace, using Steve’s pre-come as lube. “Your path is my path.” Bucky slides down the bed and takes one of Steve’s legs, pulling it over his shoulders. “You go, I follow, Stevie. Ain’t nothing else.”

Steve is writhing and squirming under him as Bucky works him open first with his fingers, and then his mouth.

They both sigh when Bucky slides into him.

There’s no rush and he thrust lazily as he continues to make every promise he can think of.

Steve’s legs brace his waist and one of his hands pulls Bucky’s head down for a kiss while the other holds his metal hand.

Steve nibbles at his lower lip only to soothe down the sting with his tongue right after.

“There’s _nothing_ I wouldn’t do for you, Buck,” he whispers into Bucky’s mouth. “No place I wouldn’t go.” Bucky speeds his pace then, Steve words working on him more than anything.  “No rule I wouldn’t break.”

Bucky takes Steve’s cock in his hand and tries to meet the rhythm of his thrust as he strokes.

“I love you so fucking much, Stevie baby,” he repeats it because he’ll never get tired of saying it, but there’s more urgency now.

Steve seems to understand because he clenches around him. “Don’t hold back,” he coaxes. “I love you, and I’m here, and I’m not leaving. Whatever you want, you can have now,” Steve pants against his skin. “No need to hold back. We’ve waited for too long, love.”

There. Steve’s last word is the tipping point and Bucky explodes into him as Steve follows suit.

He breaths Steve in as his world spins and spins and finally gets back in place.

Bucky is home; on Steve’s arms, between his leg, _inside_ of him. For the first time in as long as he can remember he feels safe and everything around him feels real.

He closes his eyes as he plants a soft kiss on Steve’s forehead before pulling out. Steve maneuvers himself from under Bucky. And Bucky is about to protest but Steve doesn’t leave the bed.

He hears as Steve fumbles with his clothes on the floor.

Everything is so familiar and calm Bucky is almost drifting off when Steve squeezes his right hand.

“Buck,” he calls quietly.

Bucky opens his eyes.

Steve gives him a ring.


End file.
